Hell's Bay

by James W. Hall

  Eight weeks start to finish. The girl despised Sugarman for dragging her home and made nasty claims about him taking sexual advantage in that Seattle motel room. Now the pilot was trying to chisel Sugar out of his fee, saying the shrink bills were eating him alive and his airline had gone into chapter eleven. Then he used his daughter’s lies to threaten Sugar with legal action.

  Sugar would’ve done the job for free, but now the thing was a point of honor, so he was heading to court.

  Mona leaned forward, planted her elbows on the table, and angled her head to look past me at Sugar.

  “So, Mr. Sugarman?” Her voice was low and husky as though these might be the first words she’d spoken in days. “You ever kill anybody?”

  In the prickly silence Sugar fetched for an answer.

  Then Annette plunged in.

  “What I want to know, Mr. Sugarman, are you any good? Do you always get your man? Or lady, as the case may be?”

  “I’m okay,” Sugar said. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’m persistent.”

  “I love those detective shows with the high-tech gadgets, those cool tweezers to pick up hair and tissue samples. Is that what you do?”

  “Not really,” Sugar said. “I’m old-school. Don’t even own a pair of tweezers. Wouldn’t know what to do with them if I did.”

  “But how do you solve your cases?”

  “Talk to people, ask a lot of questions. It’s not real glamorous.”

  As Annette was about to press on, mercifully, the dessert tray arrived.

  I thought I’d escaped her third degree, but later as Holland was ordering a cognac, Annette said, “So Mr. Thorn, I hear you’re our resident curmudgeon.”

  “Define please,” Holland said.

  “Killjoy, wet blanket,” Annette said. Sounded like a routine they played.

  I drew a breath, worked my lips into something of a smile.

  “I’m a recovering curmudgeon. Been sociable for the last three days.”

  “It’s the next seven I’m concerned about,” Annette said.

  While the others chuckled, John Milligan ticked his eyes around the table, landing on each face for a second, then moving on as if he was fine-tuning his assessments of his ship-mates.

  “And you, Mona?” I said. “What’s your story?”

  It took a moment for her to surface from the shadowy place in her head.

  She gave me a cold glare, then picked up her spoon, stared down at her untouched crème brûlée, and with a series of petulant jabs, broke the hard crust in several places.

  “My daughter’s suffered a painful loss. Actually we both have.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Annette said. “But this trip should help. All the clean air and sunshine. I always feel refreshed after a stint in the wild.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for,” Milligan said. “A little renewal.”

  “Kumbaya, my Lord.” Holland raised his Nikon and snapped three quick shots of my profile.

  “You think you could give that a rest, Holland?” I said.

  Holland seemed about to make a witty comeback, but Annette sent him a pinched look and he closed his mouth, then made a production of snapping the lens cap back in place and slumping in his seat.

  When his performance was done, I turned back to Milligan.

  “What kind of loss?”

  I knew it was rude to press on, but at that moment I needed to know just what the hell I was getting into. I was about two seconds from wadding my napkin, tossing it on the table, and stalking off. Virgin lakes be damned. Rusty would just have to snag one of her guide buddies as a last-second replacement.

  “My mother died,” Milligan said. “Mona’s grandmother. A few months ago, she drowned in the Peace River. That would be your grandmother, too, Thorn. Abigail Bates.”

  Annette set her spoon down. The table fell silent. This was a good deal more confession than anyone had bargained for. I felt Rusty’s leg pressing against mine, hard as concrete. Holland slurped his cognac, and Sugar absently fondled the stem of his glass. The awkward hush was becoming more awkward by the moment.

  To my right, Mona spooned up bite after bite of crème brûlée, then while we watched, scraped out the remains. When she was done, she patted her lips with her napkin, folded it neatly, and set it beside her place mat.

  “Grandmother was murdered,” she announced.

  She stared at me for several seconds, then looked past me at her father.

  “No, she wasn’t,” Milligan said with a weary frown. “Her canoe tipped over and she drowned.”

  He glanced around the table, and for the first time since I’d met him, he seemed less than certain.

  “There was a thorough investigation,” he said, looking at each of us in turn. “State, local. All the forensics were done, one of the best pathologists in Florida. There was no evidence of foul play, none whatsoever. She drowned. She was eighty-six and had no business in a canoe by herself without so much as a life jacket or flotation device of any kind.”

  “She was murdered.” Mona’s tone was grimly matter-of-fact, as if the two of them had hashed this over so often the bitterness was rung out of it.

  Rusty stared down at the tablecloth. Her face was pale. The evening meant to celebrate her maiden voyage was spinning out of control.

  Milligan pushed his chair back and stood up. Rusty rose, too. She laid her hand on my shoulder, tightened it, and dug her nails into my flesh.

  “Isn’t it time we were getting under way, Captain Stabler?” Milligan said. “That is, if we’re still planning on fishing tomorrow.”

  “She was murdered.” Mona stood up, stared across at me for a second, then shifted her fierce gaze to Sugarman. “Murdered, goddammit.”

  “Why do you think that, Mona?”

  “Thorn, that’s enough,” Rusty said.

  “I don’t think it,” Mona said. “I know it.”

  “Based on what?”

  “I don’t have to justify anything to you.”

  She blasted me with a scowl and stalked toward the exit.

  John Milligan crowded up to my shoulder.

  “You might as well hear it from me,” he said. “Mona thinks I was behind Mother’s death. She can’t bring herself to say the words aloud, but that’s what she believes. That I’m a killer, or that I hired one.”

  “Did you?”

  Milligan allowed himself a faint smile. “What do you think?”

  “I just met you,” I said. “But so far I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “Goddammit, Thorn,” Rusty said, “back off.”

  Milligan reached out and gave me a hearty clap on the shoulder.

  “That’s a good one, Thorn. You’re a ballsy son of a bitch. Must be the Milligan in you.”

  Rusty stood aside and shook her head slowly as though she wasn’t sure what she’d just witnessed. She wasn’t alone.

  On the way out of the restaurant, I caught Sugar’s eye. What he saw written in my face caused him to nod twice. In all our years of friendship, I’d never asked for Sugar’s professional help. But now, without a word passing between us, I’d just engaged him to investigate my grandmother’s death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The night sky was bristling with stars as I headed the Mother-ship west out the Intracoastal to the intersection with the Yacht Channel, then turned north by northwest and ran outside of Sprigger Bank, Schooner Bank, and Oxford, then past Sandy Key.

  I watched our slow progress on the GPS screen, a green arrow plowing through the quiet black sheen. From the galley just below the wheelhouse I could hear the laughter, Milligan amusing Annette, and Annette amusing back. Rusty’s coughing chuckles. She was getting a little drunk. The stress of the trip, the unforeseen tension at dinner.

  I looked out at the water. The cone of light from the over-head spot shone on the calm seas. On our starboard side a dolphin rolled, basking in the foamy wake. Then another smaller dolphin appeared beside him, two slick shiny creatures hitching
a brief ride, tickling their hides in the artificial surf. The twin Mercury outboards were running smooth. Four hundred and fifty horses pushed the big barge at a cruising speed of nine knots, which would make it a ten-hour haul to our anchorage.

  It was a journey I’d made countless times, in good weather and foul, outrunning storms and sometimes overtaken and slammed. Many times I’d motored my ancient Chris-Craft up this way, cruising slowly with a variety of friends, male and female. Days of sun and rum and fresh grilled fish, swimming naked in the transparent waters. Nights lying flat on the deck watching constellations wheel across the sky, trying to absorb the magnitude of the heavens, our tiny place in it all. The ache of longing to say the unsayable. Hours touching the flesh of lovers, being touched. The rambling talk, the beer, the wine, the bad jokes. Our laughter echoing across the empty waters. I’d stashed some good memories along nearly every mile of that route.

  Beyond Sandy Key, up to Cape Sable, then Middle Cape, Northwest Cape, past Big Sable Creek, into Ponce de Leon Bay, and into the marked channel of the Little Shark River. The Shark was a complicated river system with multiple mouths, several of them dead ends, but I knew every turn. South through Oyster Bay, through Cormorant Pass and into Whitewater Bay where tomorrow around dawn we’d ease into the side bay along the western edge of Whitewater that bordered Joe River.

  The unofficial name of the cove was “Cardiac,” so christened because years before a tarpon guide friend of mine lost a client there to a heart attack. Among my buddies the name was meant as both respectful and a dark joke. What a perfect place, and a perfect way to go, a giant tarpon jumping three feet in the air. The line tight, the heart seizing up.

  Cardiac Bay was a comfortable spot, protected from the wind, with a good rocky bottom that would hold the anchor. By the time we arrived there Teeter would be cooking breakfast.

  After the anchor was set, I was planning to head to my cabin for a nap while the others woke and dressed and ate breakfast. I’d sleep for an hour, then when everyone was fed, we’d head out, take the two skiffs and four anglers north into the labyrinth, using our laminated photograph.

  Rusty would go her way and I’d already picked the spot I wanted to explore. Three lakes joined by narrow channels. About a half mile of mangroves to fight through, but once inside, if the photograph wasn’t lying, we could fish all day in those waters, moving from one lake to another. Could be schools of tarpon back there, snook, redfish, sea trout, or grouper. Since the water was brackish—freshwater coming out of the Everglades mingled with the Gulf’s brine—there might even be a few bass. Or there might be nothing at all.

  I was going over the day ahead, the fishing. Running through the gear we’d need, how best to load my skiff. Trying to occupy my mind, though now and then as I shifted my feet, swaying with the rock of the Mothership, I could feel the weight of the snapshot in my shirt pocket.

  I wasn’t ready to examine it yet. I wanted the voices down below to die out—for the party to break up and for everyone to head off to their cabins. When they were all asleep, I’d take another look at the young blond country girl with the strong features and the wide shoulders. At the two older folks sitting on their front porch. I’d study the image and try to extract details I’d missed on my first two looks. I’d try to read my mother’s face, my grandmother’s. I was girding my-self for that.

  I gazed out at the darkness, a long narrow path of flickering moonlight on the flat seas. A single vessel glided along the horizon, a slow-going sailboat under power.

  The Mothership was handling well, a big lazy vessel, slow and sloppy through the turns, but stable and smooth on a straight heading.

  On impulse, I plucked the photograph from my pocket and laid it on the console before me. The low lights provided just enough illumination to read charts without throwing a glare on the windows, enough light to see the photo. But I didn’t look. It lay there on the flat dash beside the throttle levers.

  I shifted my hands on the wheel, nudged us a few degrees north, heading into a light breeze and a few quartering swells. With the forward motion of the Mothership combined with the freshening breeze, there was probably a fifteen-knot wind out on the decks.

  I reached through the side window to check, and the rush of air pushed against my open hand. I was starting to regret asking for Sugar’s help. This was none of my business. An old woman’s drowning, a granddaughter’s fury and grief. These people were strangers. They had nothing to do with the life I’d shaped for myself, or this new course I’d set. Some accident of flesh and blood connected us, perhaps, but that was all. No cause to become entangled in their poisonous affairs.

  Without looking at it again, I picked up the photo and held it out the side window. Pinched between thumb and finger, it fluttered in the wind and the rattling noise it made was carried off into the darkness. I held it there for several moments, working up the resolve to let it go.

  “You sure about that?” Mona had entered the wheelhouse from the starboard door. She moved across the cabin to stand near me. “Just toss it away like you can’t stomach it? Is that who you are? Some chickenshit?”

  I looked at her through the dim light, then drew in my arm and set the photo back on the console.

  She gave a dry laugh.

  “Daniel Oliver Thorn,” she said. “My famous cousin.”

  “My name is Thorn.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, Thorn. Tough guy extraordinaire.”

  “What the hell do you know about me?”

  “A good deal more than you know about me.”

  She picked up the photograph and took a long look. Her clothes gave off the scent of sweat-soaked leather with a faint undertone of wood smoke, as though she’d been sitting around a campfìre all evening after a hard day on horseback. She shifted her feet and brushed her hip against mine then stepped a few inches out of range. The contact wasn’t accidental. As if she was grazing me as cats do to leave their scent, mark their territory.

  Mona laid the photo back on the console and stared out the windshield into the cone of light, the slapping seas. The dolphins were gone.

  “You think I’m a self-absorbed bitch. That’s your first impression.”

  “Actually, I haven’t given it a lot of thought.”

  She was silent for a while, staring ahead into the darkness.

  “That’s us, huh? The green arrow.” She tapped the GPS screen.

  When I didn’t reply, she laughed again, though there was no humor in it.

  “I guess it should be reassuring. A device to tell you where you are. Never get lost again. A blinking arrow. Blink, blink. Now any idiot can find their way through the wilderness. Just follow the arrow.”

  “There’s more to knowing where you are than that.”

  “Oh, is there? Are we getting philosophical?”

  I reached for the toggle and turned off the GPS. I flicked the main control switch and the instrument panel also went dark.

  “You wanted to talk about something?”

  I could feel her staring at me, but I didn’t turn her way.

  “She was murdered. Grandmother was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I believe it, or why was she murdered?”

  “Your choice.”

  “Same answer for both,” Mona said. “Family business.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “What’re you, drunk? It came up at dinner. Bates International.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Thorn, the hermit. No radio, no TV, no Internet. Gets all his news from pressing conch shells to his ear.”

  “Why don’t you go back below? Give your contempt the rest of the night off.”

  Mona raised her hands to her temples and combed her fingers back through her tangled hair, then lifted the mass off her neck for a moment before letting it drop. The movement released another cloud of scent into the wheelhouse, the sharp musk of her flesh after a long day of travel, wine, and sweat mingled with
a quirky blend of spices that must have been her body’s aromatic signature. Something like a strong green tea spiked with citrus.

  “You have a road map up here?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “A map, a Florida road map.”

  “We don’t have much use for road maps out on the water.”

  “Where would it be if you had one?”

  I flipped on the console lights and drew open the chart drawer.

  Mona pawed through the stash and after a minute, to my surprise, came up with a folded Florida map. She opened it on the console, flattened it and refolded it so only the center of the state was exposed. No Panhandle, no South Florida.

  “You have a quarter, Thorn?”

  “A quarter?”

  “Twenty-five cents. A coin.”

  I checked our position, scanned the darkness for passing vessels. No more lights out there tonight. Everyone safely back on land, watching TV, reading their kid a story, doing what ordinary people do. We were still holding steady on our north-by-northwest course, heading into increasing sets of swells.

  I dug a quarter from the change in my pocket and held it out.

  Mona plucked the coin from my palm and laid it on the map. She positioned it just east of Sarasota and a few degrees north, then tapped it a fraction farther east and looked at me.

  “Bates International,” she said. “Or one of its many sub-sidiaries.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Almost every square mile under that coin. The land, the rivers, the streams, the ranches, the pinelands. What Bates doesn’t own isn’t worth owning.”

  “So?”

  “Abigail Bates, your grandmother, was the second-largest landowner in the state. The sweet hot center of Florida belongs to our family. Put that in your seashell, beach boy.”